


Jeeves My Dear

by mechanicaljewel



Series: Pride [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Community: indeedsir, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, References to the Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-28
Updated: 2007-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicaljewel/pseuds/mechanicaljewel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually everyone falls under the spell of four mop-tops from Liverpool, even Jeeves</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves My Dear

**Author's Note:**

> In my “Pride” universe, but it’s not really necessary to have read the others. This is just old couple!Jeeves & Bertie. Again, I borrowed Bertie’s great-niece Annie from magegirl8’s [“Bee’s Knees and Beatles”](http://magegirl8.livejournal.com/11689.html). I got the idea for this fic while listening to Sir Paul McCartney on NPR over break. I finally started writing it over the weekend when my roommates decided to watch Yellow Submarine, and I joined them and thoroughly enjoyed myself. The title is of course a reference to the song from the White Album "Martha My Dear".
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the musical selections! Please don’t sue me!

My musical tastes had always been rather traditional, I freely admit. Even in my youth, when most boys were running off to the music halls, I would save my pennies to attend concert halls and some of the cheaper symphonies. I eventually did warm up to some jazz and blues (Gershwin and Ellington primarily), but not until long after the genres had ceased to be popular. And I spent most of my life with my employer-turned-lover trying to improve his musical tastes, but that endeavour was as pointless as trying to improve his sartorial sensibilities: every time there were signs of improvement, he would come back from the tailor’s with purple socks.

Bertram tried to keep up with what music was current, but after the excruciating period in which the style known as “doo wop” was popular, he had agreed to try out new albums while I was out of the flat. I had been especially thankful for that agreement as of late, as he gets new music suggestions from his great-niece Annie, who prefers the new “psychedelic” sound, which sounds like, and as I understand it, is produced while everyone involved is under the influence of copious amounts of narcotics. Therefore, it was not uncommon to find him sprawled on the couch listening to some new noise whenever I came home from my errands, as I found him one day in November of 1968.

“What ho, Reginald,” he greeted me from his prone position. “You missed Annie. She wanted to see you but she had some protest or other to biff off to.”

“I see she brought you her latest musical selection,” I said, seating myself at the end of the couch, moving his legs to rest on my lap. “It seems to be having a very deep effect on you.”

I had vaguely heard the lyrics “ _I’m so tired/I haven’t slept a wink._ ”

He smiled warmly at my weak joke. “It’s the Beatles’ new album. It doesn’t seem to have a name,” he said, picking up the sleeve from the floor beside him. “It just says ‘The Beatles’ embossed on a white field.”

“I believe that is known in the recording industry as a ‘self-titled’ album,” I informed him.

“Bit of a let down, really. Normally their albums have such corking titles. Like the last one was called ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band’. The cover was plastered with famous personages and had ‘Beatles’ spelled out in flowers.”

“Perhaps they wished to provide a contrast, and decided on a minimalist approach.”

He considered this, knitting his brow and regarding the album sleeve, and then cast it aside. “One of life’s mysteries,” he concluded. He then turned to me. “Would you like me to switch it off as per our agreement?”

I could tell by his expression that he knew I would not ask him to do so. After more than 40 years of marriage, we had fallen into our ways. I could not deny him pleasure in any form, at least not outright. Although, for a moment I was tempted to take him up on his offer, despite its token nature, because the music had become increasingly histrionic, as rock ‘n’ roll is wont to do. But then the song ended abruptly, and in a few moments was replaced by a somewhat familiar tune.

“That’s Bach’s  _Bourrée_ ,” I said, astonished, as the singer (who I have since come to understand is Paul McCartney) sang the words, “ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night…_ ” over the acoustic melody

Bertram had picked up the album sleeve again, opened the bifold, and glanced at the track listing. “So does  _bourrée_  mean ‘blackbird’ then?” he asked.

“No,” I stated. “It is a French dance similar to a gavotte. At any rate, the song is not exactly like Bach’s composition, but it was clearly inspired by the classical piece.”

“Imagine that,” he responded and he lay back to listen to the rest of the piece. I followed suit, closing my eyes, leaning back against the cushions, letting the mellow tones wash over me. The song ended with the charming twitter of a blackbird. Then the next song came in with a Baroque-style prelude. I settled in for another pleasant surprise.

“ _Have you seen the little piggies crawling in the dirt?_ ”

My eyes snapped open. “Bertram,” I said with trepidation. “What is the name of this song?”

He consulted the track listing. “Er, wouldn’t you know it? ‘Piggies.’”

I sighed. “And it started out so promising.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Bertram said, with slight indignation. “What about that book you made me read about the pigs on the farm, but then the farm turned out to be Russia?”

I decided to leave the details of that statement uncorrected and take his larger point. I simply smiled softly at him, conveying with my eyes that he had won this aesthetic debate. He flashed me a look of triumph before we turned out attention to the remainder of the song, and then the next, and the next, until the end of the hauntingly beautiful “Julia”.

“I concede, darling. These young men are clearly very talented.”

Bertram laughed merrily. “I never thought I’d see the day where Reginald Jeeves would be the last to know something!” I chuckled with him and gently rubbed his calf that lay across my lap. “You know, there’s another disc in this album, but I was going to save it for tomorrow anyway. Would you like to start this one from the beginning?"

“Absolutely,” I replied, and I spent the rest of the afternoon becoming acquainted with four young men from Liverpool.

* * *

The next morning I was jarred awake by the sound of a twanging electric guitar, followed by the ardent declaration, “ _They say it’s your birthday!/It’s my birthday too, yeah!_ ”

I groaned and rolled over in time to see Bertram walk back back into the bedroom, bobbing his head in time to the music.

“Darling, you’re going to get us evicted for playing music this early and this loudly,” I scolded him as he crawled back into bed.

“They wouldn’t evict an old man on the anniversary of his  _naissance_ .”

“And another thing: you ruined my plans to wake you with breakfast in bed.”

He snuggled into my chest. “You’ve been doing that for forty-plus years.”

“Yes, but today I was going to put candles in your eggs.”

“All 68?”

“All 68.”

“ _Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 68?_ ” he sang.

“Pardon?” I asked, quite baffled.

He laughed. “It’s from Sgt. Pepper’s, though the real lyric is  _when I’m 64_ .”

I rubbed his shoulder. “Well, in either case, you can assume the answer is yes.”

“Jolly good,” he said, and we kissed softly.

Then the distant sound of a new song from the turntable brought our attention back to the present.

Listening to the squeaking guitar from the other room, I said, “I can tell this musical exploration is going to take some patience on my part. But a band that writes ‘Blackbird’ deserves a fair chance. How about, for your birthday, I give you the chance to improve my mind for once.”

“Sounds like a corking idea, darling, but I have to ask: you did have plans  _in re_  Bertram’s birthday before the Beatles snared you with their white album?”

I chuckled. “In fact, I had intended to attempt to improve your mind with a recording by the Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich. But we can return it when we go to buy the Beatles’ other albums.”

“Sounds like a wonderful plan, my dear chap. But first—” his eyes took on a familiar light.

“Yes?” I teased him.

“There was talk of eggs and candles.”

And with a peck on his cheek, I removed myself to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> The White Album came out on November 22, 1968, and it worked out nicely that I had decided Bertie’s birthday as November 30, 1900, and that the song “Birthday” was on that album. Actually, just using the White Album as a guide, this fic pretty much wrote itself.


End file.
